


The Miracle

by nastally



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Boarding School, Childhood Trauma, F/M, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, I Don't Even Know, I Tried, Kid Fic, M/M, Medical Procedures, Morally Grey Characters, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, Period Typical Attitudes, Pseudoscience, Unplanned Pregnancy, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:34:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27764557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally
Summary: "Fuck," says Roger, again. It's like his head is full of static. Overwhelmingly full and yet completely blank.There is a smile on Freddie's face, but it's tense and joyless. A paradoxical nervous reaction, verging on hysteria. Verging on tears. "Fuck," he echoes in an unsteady voice, lowering himself onto the other end of the sofa.They can't look at each other, so they look away, staring into thin air. What else is there to say?---TW:While this is absolutely, 100% a fantasy version of the real world, it runs very close to issues which may affect trans and intersex people deeply. Read with caution.
Relationships: Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 154
Kudos: 53
Collections: The Froger Week 2020





	1. 1971, London, England

**Author's Note:**

> Let me explain. One of my good friends suggested I should write the kid fic prompt. I don't do kid fic, ever. ...But I can't resist a challenge.
> 
> This is not a regular take on A/B/O, it's my personal take on the concept and it's quite different. (If you want to read truly amazing A/B/O, check out Sokkas_First_Fangirl! 💖)  
> This is 100% a mad experiment and I don't expect anyone to actually want to read it. (That goes for you too, emmaandorlando! 😘 By all means, skip this one.)  
> This is well out of my comfort zone.  
> This is partly a writing exercise.  
> This is not going to be particularly wholesome.  
> This will be written in very short snippet type chapters and I will add a lot of tags as we go along. (The format was inspired by the recent mini-chapter work of fingersfallingupwards, a fantastic new Froger writer who has just joined the fandom! 💕) 
> 
> This is probably going to be weird af. You have been warned. I'll update every Saturday. 
> 
> **TW: old-fashioned language to describe intersex people, now considered offensive**
> 
> A huge thank you to freddieofhearts for relentless cheerleading, helping me figure things out and beta reading. ❤️ I would have been too scared to start posting it without her.

**November 1971  
London, England**

Roger is twenty-two and would rather be anywhere but here.

"Now, on the subject of genetic chimerism, we must of course mention the perhaps most relevant example pertaining to our species," Professor Finch pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, peering out at the students sitting in front of him. "The nomenclature has changed over the course of human history, but most pervasively we know them as alphas and omegas. Although hypers and ultras, I believe, is the modern jargon," he continues with the mild disdain of somebody who has lived long enough to have forgotten that he, too, was once young. "Or hyper-masculine and ultra-feminine, although why they should be used thusly…" The chalk scrapes over the blackboard as he writes the two terms out, in full. "…to denominate what is essentially the same genetic anomaly, is quite nonsensical, especially as one is Greek and one is Latin, as I'm sure you're aware. But that is the evolution of language for you… Mr. Taylor!"

Roger's eyes snap up at the sound of his name and he quickly straightens, lowering his pen. Professor Finch raises an eyebrow, the line of his mouth twisting into a thin-lipped smirk, glasses balancing on the tip of his nose. "You seem awfully busy noting everything down."

Leaning back in his chair, Roger covers the sketch on his pad of paper with his arm, even as his eyes flick down to it. His ogre war chief is coming along very nicely.

"Would you mind telling us which is which?" Finch asks, rolling the piece of chalk between his fingers.

Roger's gaze lingers on the words written on the blackboard for a moment. _Hyper-masculine_. What a bunch of-

"I'm sorry," he shifts in his seat, aware of everyone's eyes on him. One or two people have raised their hands. "I thought this was biology," he says, a small, innocently confused frown on his face as he draws a circle in the air with the end of his pen to indicate the lecture hall, "not linguistics?"

The room breaks out in muffled snickers and Finch looks vexed as he heaves a sigh. "Very funny. Very funny, indeed. Yes, Miss Andrews?"

"Hyper comes from Greek, ultra is a Latin prefix."

"Thank you." Finch throws Roger another look, which goes unnoticed as he has already turned back to his drawing. "So, then," the professor continues, "here we have an evolutionary deviation which is likely to become extinct over the next few centuries. Which is interesting, don't you think, when one considers how many ancient cultures worshipped this anomaly as almost, well, you could say, divine. The ancient Chinese dynasties, ancient Greece and ancient Egypt in particular… And yes, it's worth noting that male omegas, or ultras, if you will, and female hypers fall under the umbrella terms of hermaphroditism. Yes?"

"How many hypers and ultras are there? I mean, alive today?"

"Ah, good question, Miss Barnes. The answer is a little tricky as the condition is difficult to detect before puberty without rigorous testing and many parents will strive to keep it a secret, for obvious reasons."

With a few strokes of Roger's pencil, the expression on the ogre's face grows fiercer.

"But as a rough estimate, some four percent of the global population were born with a type of hermaphroditism, and alphas and omegas make up the majority of that group. Who knows?" Finch spreads his arms out wide, looking around the class. "You may have met them, been friends with them, even." Quiet murmurs ripple through the class. Roger bends his head a little lower, propping it up on his hand, and begins to sketch a mace into the ogre's hand. Naturally, Freddie is going to complain that he looks far too hideous to be the ogre king. But who's ever heard of a handsome ogre? "It's more likely than you think." Finch waggles a finger at the lecture hall. "With the suppressants available today, even male omegas and female alphas can lead regular lives." He informs them, and chuckles. "So you see, most of them are not quite the danger to civilised society sensationalist reports in the papers would have you believe."


	2. 1960, Panchgani, India

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you are actually reading this. XD Alright then! Haha. Thank you, I'm delighted you're joining me on the journey through this... erm, experiment.
> 
> I had a fourth fic planned for Froger week and I will still finish it (hoping emmaandorlando will keep the collection open for a bit!), but it will be out late, so I figured I'd post the second mini-chapter of this instead. 
> 
> Huge thanks to freddieofhearts for beta-reading, brit-picking and pom-pom waving! ❤️

**May 1960  
Panchgani, India**

Freddie is thirteen and he is dying. 

He must be, because what other explanation can there be? 

It all makes sense now and it chills him to the bone, looking back, because at first it had seemed like nothing. He'd dismissed it entirely. A twinge here or there over the last few days. A bit of indigestion, surely, nothing more. Or so he'd thought. 

Until he awoke in a cold sweat in the dead of night, to such intense pain that it took him long, agonising minutes, writhing in bed and gritting his teeth, before he finally dragged himself up to go to the loo. An upset tummy then. It happened. Although he'd never had it _this_ bad before. 

But then he noticed it, a shocking bright red on the tissue paper. Blood. So much blood… 

Freddie squeezes his eyes shut and desperately tries not to make a sound. But his rapid breathing is too loud in the silence of the night, and there are small whimpers he can't contain escaping him. In his panic, his feet have taken him straight back to bed, nonsensical as that is. He should be on his way to matron, he knows that. But everything around him is a picture of grey stillness and he doesn't want to wake anyone, afraid he will only get himself into trouble for it. And so, even though he is _dying_ , Freddie can't bring himself to move. 

The sight of the blood-stained toilet bowl has left him nauseous and shaking. It isn't gushing, not exactly, but it isn't stopping either. An ominous, slow trickle that seems to spell his doom, although right now with his muscles clenched tight he can pretend it's not happening. Which is foolish, and temporary. He's sure that he'll have to run back to the bathroom eventually if he doesn't want to get it on the sheets. The relentless pain spreading from his lower abdomen all the way through to his spine only confirms it. Something is terribly, terribly wrong with him.

As he lies curled up in bed, shivering despite the warm, humid night air, arms wrapped around himself, Freddie's imagination runs wild. He imagines a deadly disease eating through him, his organs decaying, from the inside out. Leaving him disfigured like the children begging at the markets. A poison, liquifying his insides. A parasite tearing through his gut— 

"Freddie?" 

The whisper startles him and he brings up a hand to wipe his eyes as he opens them. Ajay has lifted up his head a little, squinting at him from the bed beside Freddie's. Rubbing the tip of his nose with a sniff, Freddie resigns himself to the fact that he can't hide how upset he is. A part of him is glad, even, that he isn't quite so alone with it any longer. Ajay is nice to him, most days. When the others aren't around, at least. 

"Are you alright?" the other boy asks in a hushed voice and Freddie jerkily shakes his head 'no', lips pressed together because he's afraid of what might come out if he opens his mouth. Ajay sits up in bed, frowning, and looks around. "Should I call someone?" 

Freddie begins to nod — then immediately realises the implications of having someone come to the dormitory. It's that which finally propels him up. "N-no," he gasps, "I'll go..."

Ajay goes with him, which is kind, or perhaps just an interesting bit of gossip to tell over breakfast. Matron, in her dressing gown and nightcap, not at all pleased to be woken at this hour, sends the other boy back to bed. 

She isn't a stranger, she knows Freddie well enough, perhaps better than many of his peers. ‘Now then, what’s the matter this time,’ she might have greeted him, under different circumstances. But as he stammers an awkward explanation and apologies for his presence, all while she sticks a thermometer under his arm, she begins to regard him with an unsettling mixture of concern and shrewd suspicion. Freddie feels almost as if she is looking at him for the first time, properly, and does not approve of what she sees. 

He is not permitted to return to the dormitory that night, nor is he granted any explanations. Not when he is told to wait in the sick room, which feels awfully eerie at night. Nor when the ambulance arrives and he is accompanied to the hospital by matron. It’s no use crying and whingeing now. _Shush, lie still, stop fussing_ — they prod his stomach and stick needles into the bend of his arm, one of which doesn't draw blood but makes his eyelids droop, sending him into dull, unpleasant dreams. 

Freddie doesn't return to St. Peter's School for boys for the remainder of the term. As it turns out, he isn't dying after all. But it's hard to feel relieved.

Because he was right about one thing.

There is something terribly, terribly wrong with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, listen. In my universe, you have a uterus, you bleed. Tough luck, Freddie. XD
> 
> \---
> 
> Froger week 2020 has been amazing, everyone! Whoo!! This fandom is alive and kicking. I will slowly read my way through all the entries as I find the time, I'm so sorry that it'll take me a while but I look forward to it! Well done, everybody! ❤️


	3. 1969, London, England

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a feeling you'll be left with a few questions as I'm building this verse. But there's already quite a few clues as to our heroes' stories and circumstances in here. Anyway, I'm quite enjoying myself. I hope some of you are, too! 😅
> 
> Big thanks to freddieofhearts for beta and britpicking! ❤️

**April 1969  
London, England**

Roger is nineteen and life is a brilliant adventure. 

The grimy back alleys of Soho stink of piss, wet dust and a stew forgotten on the hob somewhere in a pub kitchen. 

Not that he smells of roses himself.

Drenched in sweat and laughing, they burst out through the doors of the small coffee bar, its basement home to a cavern-like music venue where the sound is deafening and drinks are not sold cheap, but strong. No one cares if they've indulged more than they can afford. Smile's freshly signed record deal is a promise of fame and fortune in their pocket, and the mood for celebration is upon them.

Heavy platform boots echo on the cobblestones. Cigarette smoke clings to their hair and clothes. Roger peers into his empty packet of fags hoping more will materialise (they don't); Tim is mid-song but doesn't remember the words; Brian has hiccoughs and Freddie's eyelids are drooping, a dazed smile on his face. The vestiges of euphoria, a warm simmer of mirth. 

As they all stagger along the small, deserted street, Brian and Tim lean on each other, a comical picture. Brian so lanky and towering over Tim, who has an arm wrapped around the guitarist's waist. There's laughter bubbling up inside Roger's chest as his inebriated brain supplies a joke at their expense – _'Tiny Tim and Brian the Giant'_ – but he's far too fond of them, so he won't say it, not even after too many drinks. 

Not even to Freddie, whose arm he latches on to with a heavy grip, almost crashing them both into the nearest wall.

The laughter spills out, no explanation needed, because Freddie laughs along regardless. As if he’s in on the joke. Because he is. He always is. 

Roger hasn’t lived long enough to truly appreciate the rarity of a connection like he and Freddie have. A live wire, understanding at a glance. The two months they've known each other may as well be two lifetimes. 

“I've no idea how I'll get home at this hour,” Freddie laments, once they're no longer giggling, but he doesn’t sound too concerned. Perhaps because he's only saying it to confirm what they both already know.

“Don't be stupid,” Roger slurs, dropping his lolling head onto Freddie’s shoulder for a moment. “You're staying at mine.”

And that’s that settled.

"... you remember? It was when – hold on. Freddie knows. Hey, Fred?" Tim looks back over his shoulder and Freddie slips out of his friend's clumsy grasp, joining in with a conversation Roger is too drunk even to listen in on. 

He falls behind a little instead, entranced by the gleam of recently fallen rain on the damp cobbles, faintly reflecting the street lamps. 

The world is full of wonder. He never wants to come down from this high. 

“Hey.”

Roger turns his head before he’s quite realised that someone has addressed him, and how, and why. He stumbles over his feet a little as he comes to a halt and his unsteady gaze lands on a girl, barely older than him. Perhaps younger, beneath the facade of her painted face. She steps closer, in her too-short skirt, a jacket pulled tight around herself to ward off the chill of the night. 

"'ey…" Instinctively, Roger draws himself up and raises his chin, peering down his nose at her with a lop-sided smile. "You alright, luv?" 

And something arrests him there, his friends momentarily forgotten, their merry voices distant. Perhaps it is a whiff of her perfume, _her scent_ – it's almost sobering. It draws him in, draws his entire focus to her doll-like face, her large dark eyes. 

"Yeah," her rose-petal lips murmur. "You wanna have some fun?" 

She lets her jacket fall open a little as she closes the distance between them, not a skirt but a tight dress, a glimpse of cleavage, only it's as though her clothes have dropped from her delicate body entirely. Roger inhales deeply, nostrils flaring, and exhales a shuddering breath through parted lips. He's very, very drunk and she is like a siren's song, bypassing his intellect. Stirring the murky darkness inside him. Pulling at the part of him which can see her without looking. _Oh._

"Oh," she breathes, eyes growing wider, a genuine spark of interest flaring up in them. "You don't look like…" 

"Roger!" His friends shout in unison from up the road, and it's just enough to break through the spell. He jerks his head around, gaping dumbly at Freddie who falls into a jog on his way back to him. Behind his shoulder, Brian and Tim are snickering. 

A small hand closes around his forearm and Roger turns to the girl beside him again, a gleam of recognition in her eye, her voice breathy. "But you are, aren't you?" 

At last, his mind catches up and he pulls himself free, stumbles backwards, blinking rapidly. "Uh, sorry. Got no money." 

The apology is followed by an awkward chuckle and he raises his hands half in defence, half in capitulation. 

"For goodness’ sake!" Freddie is grinning as he loops his arm around Roger's, dragging him away with only a fleeting glance at the working girl. " _Honestly_ , Roger," he admonishes, amused, as he steers them back to the others.

"I didn't realise," Roger defends himself, breaking into a sheepish smile. 

Brian claps a hand on his back and shakes his head. "Look, we know the ladies flock to you, but really?" 

"Yeah, yeah," Roger mumbles, brushing messy strands of hair out of his face. However, a part of him is still on edge, the urge to look back over his shoulder strong. It's as though he can still sense her looking at him, because she had _seen_ him. And his head is too heavy and hazy to know what to make of that right now, except it's never happened before, and he didn't think that it could. Because he'd _seen_ her, too.

It's Tim who looks back. "She's a bit of alright, I'll give you that." He nods approvingly and then frowns, turning to Roger. "Do you reckon she's… you know."

Now it's Brian who throws a look over his shoulder. "An ultra?" 

"Oh, uh." Roger gives a noncommittal shrug. "Maybe. Lots of them are, aren't they."

"That's true," Tim agrees, then bursts out laughing. "At least it wasn't a bloke, hey?" 

Brian guffaws and Roger chuckles along, pulling a face. "I'm not _that_ drunk, mate!" 

"Are you sure?" 

"Wouldn't put it past you!" 

"Oh, shut it–" 

"Bus stop's this way," Freddie cuts through their banter, and releases Roger's arm, walking ahead to lead the way.


	4. 1960, Stone Town, Zanzibar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I return once more to confuse the hell out of you! 😜 Although, hopefully, this chapter also has a couple of interesting tidbits of information for you.
> 
> I must say, I am still absolutely not expecting anyone to read this very strange tale, but if you are genuinely enjoying it well then, I am delighted.
> 
> Huge thanks to freddieofhearts for being an awesome beta on all fronts! ❤️

**June 1960  
Stone Town, Zanzibar**

Freddie is thirteen and wants nothing more than to wake up and find that it has all been a strange and horrible dream. 

The doctor doesn't spare a look for him as he speaks. His accent, in English, is almost as bad as the gardener's back at school. It seems strange now that he couldn't make it out before, Freddie thinks, in the voices which surrounded him daily throughout his childhood. Before _proper_ English and – _no, repeat, don't stammer, don't mumble now, six thick thistle sticks_ – a tut of reprimand for getting it wrong, a swift smack on the head or a smarting rap on the knuckles. Yet the doctor's choice of words, his phrasing and the rasp of age make him sound authoritative and learned. This is an elder, a healer, a wise man. A man who must be listened to. And so Freddie listens, watching coarse, liver-spotted hands elaborate in time with the words. 

"...hysterectomy, yes, it is the most effective procedure, of course. But the problem, you understand, it is the scar. It is very… visible, yes? Anybody who saw it could guess what it is." 

His mother's hand tightens around his, lying on his knee. Freddie glances up at her, but she is looking to the doctor imploringly. Awaiting an answer, a solution to the problem – the tragedy, the misfortune, the conundrum – that is Freddie's existence. _Please don't cry again, mummy_. Fewer tears have been shed to mourn the dead than his mother has cried for him since he arrived home. 

Freddie wishes they'd left him at home with Kash. What is the purpose of his presence here? Either way, he'll be told what he must do. 

"...is why I recommend you it," the doctor is explaining, "The removal of the rectal glands."

"Is it necessary?" Freddie's father asks, a picture of stoicism. Much like the doctor, his father doesn't look at Freddie much, these days. Less than he used to. 

The doctor shrugs. 

Dust particles dance in the evening sunlight falling in. Freddie imagines that he is outside that window, nose pressed up against it, looking on as his fate is decided. It's too unbearable to be sitting here, all inside himself. He wants to submit to anything it will take to make him _normal_ again – and also he doesn't want any of it. His chest is painfully tight, up to his throat, at the mere thought of operations.

"I recommend it," the doctor repeats, failing to answer his father's question. "The suppressants will not affect it, yes? That is the problem. Like a female, the secretions in a state of…" For the first time since they have sat down, the doctor's eyes land on Freddie and he hesitates. Some things are not appropriate for a child's ears, and Freddie's head sinks lower, shamefully, as he finds himself terrified in the moment of silence which follows. Of being asked, of being _found out_. 

It's only that he didn't know, that he never thought anything of it – the things that feel good, face turned into the pillow, fingers tentatively exploring under the covers, instinct, the first stirrings of a new kind of yearning, shh, don't make a sound – he thought it was normal, then. 

"It is a good way to…" the doctor continues, and to Freddie's monumental relief, it is not a question. "To significantly reduce, yes, the temptation. You reduce the potential for pleasure, you reduce the temptation." He folds his hands together as he speaks and then spreads them wide again. "And it is simple, simply done."

Freddie feels rather than sees his parents exchange a look, and the grown ups all nod solemnly. A decision, it seems, has been made. 

"It is the best you can do for him," says the doctor, "To give him a normal life. And I will write you…" He picks up a fountain pen and lowers it to the pad of paper in front of him. "The suppressant, yes. It will not only suppress the fertility cycle and excessive pheromone production but ensure the physical development is correct… On the outside, yes? But he must take it regularly. Don't worry, don't worry. With this, you will have nothing to worry about. He will mature to look the same as any man. In fact..." 

Lifting the pen off the paper, the doctor smiles, peering over the edge of his spectacles. "It may even enhance the male features. We are making sure this young man grows hair on his chest!" – and he chuckles dryly. 

The family sitting before him, still in shock over the revelation that their own son is one of the undesirable, the unnatural, the cursed, doesn't have it in them to laugh. Although Freddie's mother forces a nervous, politely amused hum, her fingers stiff around her son's hand. And his father reaches into his pocket to retrieve the small bundle of rolled up notes which will ensure utmost discretion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was wondering for a bit if I am making this 'verse too cruel, but then I remembered that in our lovely world we have such things as female genital mutilation of infant girls. 🙃


	5. 1964, Truro, Cornwall, England

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I missed my update day last Saturday. Shush! 🤫 I'm trying. 
> 
> Back with a Christmassy (?! - not really) chapter. 😬  
> A note: _The documented facts about Roger's parents' divorce is that they were definitely separated the year he turned 15 and the family home was sold._
> 
> Big thanks to the ever amazingly helpful freddieofhearts for beta and britpicking! 💕

**December 1964  
Truro, Cornwall, England**

Roger is fifteen and Christmas will not be the same this year.

The house is cold and dark, this late in the afternoon. The living room feels cramped: boxes are still left to unpack and there are no pictures on the walls, only pale, rectangular ghosts of the lives of strangers. They catch his eye as he makes his way to the bathroom, shivering. 

These new, old walls which they now call home don’t even smell of _them_ , don't hold that promise of familiarity and warmth. His mother’s cooking. Clare’s flowery perfume, that she was so chuffed with – a twelfth birthday present. But that will come, he knows, and it will never again — _never again_ — be overshadowed by reeking whiskey breath and acrid tobacco. So put on a brave face, don't complain, smile and hug Mum tighter...

And hug Clare tighter when she looks so forlorn, like this, sitting on her creaky bed. 

_What colour baubles should we put on the tree this year?_ It's easier to smile when she smiles first. _All of them! But we'll have to find them first in all this mess..._

Roger shuts the bathroom door and turns the key, and then turns on the tap, running freezing water over his bruised knuckles. They stand out swollen and red on his thin fingers and he stares at his hands. 

Delicate by comparison. Nothing alike, no, and they never will be, he won't let them become the same as his father's. Today was an accident, and he's mortified and sorry. He's so sorry, but then again, _bloody well deserved it, that stupid oaf—_

Yet he can barely remember now what it was the neighbour's boy said. About them. About his mother. 

Probably shouldn't try to remember, or the anger will rise again like a tidal wave. He can still feel it churning in his chest, so close, _too_ close to the surface.

He touches icy hands to his face, the cold a relief to the places where it hurts. Cuts and bruises. A boyish face in the mirror, peering through his fingers. Oh, but there is a hidden strength in his unimpressive frame, missed by his peers. Always a surprise to those he's ended up in a scrap with – and there’s been a few. 

But nothing like this. 

Because it wasn't surprise he saw on the faces of the people who quickly gathered around them, out on the street. 

The people who looked on as he was wrestled away and restrained by two grown men, growling and kicking. 

What he saw was shock. And it's sitting inside him now, it seems. It has seeped into him, from their judgemental eyes. And the sight of the other boy on the ground, spluttering blood. 

Shock. Of course. No one ever suspects, with a face like his. Which is just as it should be. Isn’t he lucky?

 _What an angel!_ — to have a penny for every time the words have been uttered since he's been old enough to understand them. Perhaps then they would have had the means to leave sooner. 

_What an angel_. 

Always addressed to his mother, not him, even while his cheeks were pinched and his hair ruffled. The highest compliment a woman could receive, it seemed, to have brought a child into this world that is so — _precious! Oh, will you look at those eyes!_

He is looking. 

And a wolf in sheep’s clothing stares back at him from the mirror. A falsehood, blue eyes large and innocent, although the left one is smaller now. Puffy, just a little, above the reddish-purple mark on his cheekbone. 

“Roger.” The knock on the door is light but insistent. 

The water is still running, circling down the drain. _Unfortunate_ , so the doctors said, frowning at test results and at the boy in front of them, only eleven years old then. _Unusual, not normally hereditary_ , they noted with a shrug, when it became obvious that the shape of his eyes and the colour of his hair were not all he had inherited from his father. 

_Unfortunate_ , his father scoffed on the way home, _so they say now, but it wasn’t so long ago when things were different. They’d rather choke than admit it. A fine thing, that is! But let me tell you. Who do you think they wanted on the front lines? Men with instinct. Men born to fight. Alpha means first and there’s good reason for that. Good reason. People like you and me were leaders, Roger! Not potential delinquents, like they’d have you believe, let me tell you_ —

But the age of men who rule with fists and fear is over. 

“Roger, come now, open up.”

 _You are more than the flesh and blood you were born with_. Mother knows best, or so they say. Or so he wants to believe, but how can he look her in the face now? He can’t, for fear of seeing that she knows she was wrong. That the pills only served to disguise his true nature – they cannot control it, and neither can he.


	6. 1970, London, England

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have abandoned my update schedule for this over the holidays, and I may have entirely failed to write a "mini" chapter here but.... XD Enjoy!
> 
> A huge thanks to my dear friend freddieofhearts, her never-ending enthusiasm and her badass beta skills. Love ya! 💕

**January 1970  
London, England**

Freddie is twenty-three and the more things change, the more they stay the same.

“Wha’s this then? Cor!”

“Let’s ‘ave a look!”

While he twists away from Geoff, who inserts himself into Freddie’s space without a hint of hesitation, the sketchbook is pulled out of his grasp from the other side instead. Tupp leans over the sofa behind him, one elbow pressing down on Freddie’s shoulder.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Freddie snaps, trying and failing to hit a note somewhere between exasperation and amusement, rather than distress. “Give it back.” 

Tupp whistles and nods with an approving smirk. Freddie knows his face is an imperfect facade of nonchalance as he resists the urge to snatch his sketchbook back. It is wiser to be in on the joke, not allow himself to stay at the receiving end of it. The latter is a position he seems predisposed to fall into, no matter what.

“Nice.”

The sketchbook is dropped back onto his lap, where he moves a protective hand over the half-finished drawing, pencil tucked between his fingers – then immediately forces himself to pull his hand away. Don’t look like you _care_ so much, that is always his first and worst mistake. Art school hasn’t cured him of it, the deep discomfort, the embarrassment that turns his stomach when he is forced to put unfinished work up for scrutiny. Even when it shouldn’t matter, when it isn’t personal, not even _art_. Not really.

Geoff nudges him, leaning in close again. “‘Oo’s the bird?”

 _Oh._

Oh, but of course. But that is good, Freddie realises in a matter of a split second, and proceeds to throw himself at the turn the situation is taking like a helmsman yanking at the steering wheel to navigate treacherous waters. He lets his lips curl into a smirk. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Fred’s drawin’ birds in the buff!” Tupp announces to Roger and Rich as they enter from the kitchen, carrying plates of spaghetti and meat sauce. It’s Roger’s speciality, otherwise known as the only dish he knows how to make that is not some form of sandwich. But Freddie is in no position to pass judgement: his own cooking prowess is limited to sandwiches and popcorn.

“I hope he’s charging you a pretty penny for it!” Roger shoots back without missing a beat, throwing himself into an armchair, and his feet up on top of the coffee table.

Geoff and Rich are laughing, and Tupp, for lack of a clever retort, flashes a grin and a two finger salute to the room at large as he wanders off again.

“It’s work,” Freddie elaborates finally, moving into the corner of the sofa and tucking his legs under himself to rest the sketchbook on his thighs more comfortably. “Lingerie advertisement, for a – ahh, bloody hell, where’s my rubber gone?”

Rich and Roger hum in acknowledgement, their mouths full, while Geoff obligingly looks around for Freddie’s misplaced rubber and Freddie hangs off the side of the sofa to check underneath it. The conversation has already moved on to exciting, opportune sightings of girls with or without their underwear in place by the time he’s found it and Freddie remains blissfully undisturbed for some time, only half listening. 

The woman in his sketch is coming along nicely now. Legs long and straight in a wide stance, one foot pointed with a dancer’s grace. One arm up and folded behind her head, the other hand on her hip, just so. If he weren’t required not to focus on the hair, so as not to distract from the underwear, he might be tempted to make it longer. Flowing, straight and silky. The way his own will never lie, Freddie muses, chewing on his bottom lip in concentration while he retraces the outline of the sketch.

It’s only then that he slowly begins to notice the silence in the room. A rare occurrence in a flat that houses twice the tenants it was originally rented out to.

When he looks up, Freddie finds everybody gone. Everybody but Roger, who is still sitting in the armchair across from him, his feet still up on the coffee table beside his now empty plate. Head tilted sideways, propped up on his hand, he’s quite simply watching Freddie. And seems to have been doing so for some time. He seems entirely undaunted when Freddie meets his eyes, so much so that it makes Freddie feel caught out, even though he isn’t the one staring.

“What?” He smiles, a little nervously, aware of his own heartbeat all of a sudden. There is a way that Roger has about him, a way of looking that is a bit audacious. Unafraid and almost demanding. Or so it feels. _Show yourself to me_ , it seems to whisper in goosebumps down the back of Freddie’s neck sometimes, _I want to see you_.

“Nothing.” The word, haphazardly offered in response, is at odds with the curious glint in Roger’s eyes, but it comes with an innocent shrug and a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. He doesn’t know it, Freddie thinks and lowers his eyes away from that searching gaze. This is simply Roger, through and though, and he doesn’t know what he’s doing, not really. 

Only sometimes Freddie thinks he must realise. A terrifying thought, because what else might he realise then? 

“It’s fun watching you draw. Your face moves a lot,” Roger adds – his tone so casual, as though Freddie isn’t meant to mull that over until the end of time now, whenever he picks up a pencil in front of other people.

“Does it.” He pulls his lip over his teeth, self-conscious. But then something comes to mind and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Well, did you know that your nose moves when you talk?”

“What?” Roger huffs out a laugh, feet coming down on the floor as he sits up straight. 

“The tip,” explains Freddie, tapping his own with one finger. “It wiggles when you talk.”

“It doesn’t!” The protest carries more amusement than conviction.

“It does.”

When Freddie next looks up, Roger is feeling around the tip of his nose with a frown and Freddie’s hand flies up to his mouth to muffle the snort of laughter that escapes him. A fond grin returns to Roger’s face and he leans forward, nodding at the sketchbook. “You finished?”

“Um.”

“Can I see?”

Freddie intends to pass him the sketchbook, but Roger propels himself out of the armchair the next moment and lands on the armrest right beside him, one arm on the back of the sofa behind Freddie as he leans in close. Inserting himself into Freddie’s space as unapologetically as Geoff did. Only Freddie discovers that he minds half as much.

“Wow.” Roger gives a few weighty nods of approbation and places his hand down on the edge of the sketchbook. His fingers tap out a light rhythm as he speaks, two fingertips resting on the paper, the other two on Freddie’s thigh. “Yeah, wow, that’s really good.”

“Thank you.” He leans closer to the other man minutely, heedful of shifting only so much that it might be almost unnoticeable. Could be without intention. He shouldn’t, but it’s harmless, surely. He isn’t doing anything wrong, Freddie reasons, acutely aware of every point of contact between their bodies through layers of cloth. Fingers, thigh, shoulder, arm. But more than that, more than piercing blue eyes, more than Roger’s touch, it’s his scent that overwhelms. It’s inescapable, now that they share a flat, a room, on the odd occasion even a bed. After a party, when friends decide to stay over. Cramped quarters, Freddie’s nose between Roger’s shoulder-blades. The _scent_ of him. Where Mary smells like powder, like soap and fresh flowers, pleasant and clean, Freddie has no words to describe Roger. It’s beyond words, somehow, beyond intellect. It’s torture how much Freddie wants to breathe him, it should make him want to recoil in horror, because no good can come of it. None ever has. But instead all he wants is to soak it in, as much as he’s granted. 

The slightest hint of warm breath tickles the side of Freddie’s neck, its effect disproportionate, prickling heat all down his spine.

“She’s got a great look, really confident.” There’s a smile in Roger’s voice. “I dig it.”

“Yeah,” Freddie agrees, thoughts wandering where they shouldn’t. Does Roger think him confident, when he sees him on stage? Does the front Freddie carefully curates for the limelight convince? Does Roger… dig it? 

“Good work.” With a friendly pat on the shoulder, Roger leaves him to return his plate to the kitchen. 

Just as quickly as it enveloped him, the haze dulling Freddie’s mind lifts, leaving behind a bittersweet aftertaste. His only comfort must be that not a soul is privy to the inner workings of his mind.


	7. 1974, New York, USA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long break, and still more sorry for the [even longer break I'm about to go on](https://a-froger-epic.tumblr.com/post/641590788286038016), but needs must!
> 
> In case you didn't know, in late May 1974, Brian May collapsed sometime after a show because of a case of hepatitis nobody had been aware of. 
> 
> Big thanks as always to freddieofhearts, the best beta, brit-picker and cheerleader! 😘

**May 1974  
New York, USA**

Roger is twenty-four and he has arrived.

The lights are blinding, blurring his vision. Beer splatters in a fantastic spectacle of glistening droplets every time he hits the floor tom. The sting of sweat in his eyes – he screws them shut for a few long moments, not a beat amiss. He is super-human, pure potential unfolding, still gaining momentum. 

_So alive._

The others – mere silhouettes on stage, and still he knows them at half a glance, senses their proximity. Heat and sweat. Brian, bent over the Red Special, drawing them all into an otherworldly daze of echoing sound. John, sharp precision and perfectly in sync with every one of Roger’s movements. Freddie…

Freddie, his soul laid bare before them all. Magnificent, limitless. A scream, a twist. A hand thrown up at the skies as though he hopes to touch them. 

And he does. 

Breathtaking, these dizzying heights. 

Freddie turns and strides towards the drum risers like a wildcat on the prowl. But when he draws near, it’s Roger who wants to pounce. Freddie stops in front of the kit, legs wide, his face a blur of sharp angles and shadows. The way he moves looks effortless, but he’s trembling with energy – bursting with life. His fingers grip and caress the metal rod in his hands. Roger wets his lips and throws himself into the rhythm, an open-mouthed grin on his face that Freddie returns, the cheeky sod. _Oh darling, don't I know it-_

The spring before Roger's sixteenth birthday brought with it a veritable spring awakening. An epiphany ... and not a minute too late. Looking back, he had been desperate for it. A dreadful sense of predetermination had weighed heavily on him: the stifling fear of what he was, what he would become. 

But as it turned out, there was a choice. One that was far simpler, far easier than he had ever imagined it. 

Far more exciting, too. 

Realisation had come to him in the form of a petite brunette with a temper. _Jill_ – such a sweet girl, but oh, her dark eyes could blaze with a passion that had consumed him like the sweetest flame. Barely beyond the innocence of childhood, somewhere along the strange frontier of adolescence, Roger had found a new outlet for the urges inside him, those feelings which were sometimes overwhelming and seemingly indomitable. The way they raged, fanning anger and eclipsing common sense...

_Conquer, claim, prevail_.

But anger, it turned out, was just a different kind of passion. And passion came in many forms. Roger discovered that he could conquer without a fight, claim without subjugation.

Sex was a revelation, a lifeline. To find that his peculiar nature could be so appeased – that there was no pent-up aggression and frustration, so long as the wildfire inside him could burn through collisions of a different sort. Delight, not damage, and no need to hold back. 

Sex, Roger discovered, was the best thing in the world. And the world agreed. Promiscuity, decried by older generations as a sign of the times, was embraced by the young as a new form of freedom. From that pivotal moment of self-discovery, he hadn’t needed to hold back. Not until – 

The crowd is alive with movement, just as it had been in front of the stage. But now he is one of them, and he could drown in the twisting heat of bodies and still thirst for more. His vision is already swimming from too many drinks downed too quickly. Such thirst for _life_. 

Nobody – Roger thinks – shares this more than Freddie. 

Freddie, who attacks him with wild, playful glee, half-shoving and half-pulling him into the cubicle. The door shuts and they crash into each other: choked-off laughter and breaths sucked in through teeth, Freddie now cornered in a trap of his own creation. 

It's _such_ a bad idea. It's utterly irresistible. 

Roger hums low in his throat and closes his eyes, fingers sinking into dark, sweaty curls. The hands on his waist ruck up his shirt just so they can touch a sliver of skin. He shivers, leaning into the other man's body, nose buried in the crook of his neck. The thrum of Freddie's racing pulse deafens him more than the music. And his scent – the inviting, agonised desire he exudes. 

It's worse for Freddie, of course, and Roger shouldn't revel in that knowledge. In the way Freddie clings to him, trembling, wanting. They are super-human, their bodies as responsive to each other as two strings of a guitar, vibrating in unison. Roger should be the one in control, should put an end to this right now. 

But holding back is so hard when all he wants is to let go, and so he tastes Freddie’s neck on his tongue instead. 

"Not fair," Freddie half moans, half whispers, inhaling deeply and exhaling a trembling breath. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of Roger's sides, just above the waistband of his jeans, and he pulls him closer. Impossibly, heat seems to seep through denim and satin, where desire meets desire. 

“You started,” Roger breathes against Freddie’s evening stubble, and their lips collide.

It isn't. Fair. 

Roger gave up the pills years ago, determined to take charge of his biology and its effects, some of which serve him very well indeed. But it isn't so simple for Freddie. They are opposites as much as they are the same, and Roger understands why Freddie can't and won't be himself in the same way Roger can allow himself to be. It's easier like this, safer. God knows how Roger would have made it through the last two years of the odd stolen moment and fleeting kiss, God knows _if_.

God knows he doesn’t feel like he has the strength tonight. 

How easy it would be, his animal brain supplies, to spin them around, bend Freddie over the toilet and give them what they both crave. (How easy to jeopardise the band and a friendship they hold most dear, for a few brief moments of ecstasy.) 

When they come up for air, Freddie drags his lips across Roger’s jaw. Shuddering breath, hot and moist. Freddie’s teeth scrape his neck and Roger finds he has forgotten what is staying his hand. Why it isn’t already shoved down the back of Freddie’s trousers. 

The door to the toilets bangs open.

“Roger!”

Both the urgency and the familiarity of the voice is a sobering shock. They pull apart and freeze, eyes wide. Freddie’s mouth forms the name first, albeit silently: “John.”

Hurried footsteps echo through the room.

“Rog? Fred?” He sounds like there’s something wrong. More than that, he sounds panicked. John _never_ panics – a realisation which hits them both as one, and as one they respond.

“John?” calls Freddie.

“You alright?” says Roger at the exact same time, and grimaces. _Shit._ Freddie lets his head drop against the door with a dull thud, eyes rolling up at the ceiling.

“Oh. Where the hell are you?” John’s footsteps change direction and stop just outside their cubicle.

“What’s the matter?” Roger stalls, straightening out his shirt, while Freddie rushes to comb his fingers through his hair.

“Just – will you come the fuck out, please! Now!”

They catch each other’s eye, faces lined with genuine concern. It doesn’t sound like John gives a damn about what they have or haven’t been up to, not right at this moment. Freddie turns and reaches for the door handle.

“What’s wrong, dear?”

He is answered with an impatient huff, John’s voice uncharacteristically on edge. “It’s _Brian_!”


End file.
